HeroesVille: Beginnings
by hrhrionastar
Summary: Lionel goes on a trip and makes an interesting acquaintance.
1. The Manipulators

**HeroesVille: Beginnings**

**Part One: The Manipulators**

"Luthor. Senator wants to see you," Jeanne says in a bored tone, waving Lionel onward, further into the building. "Something about an errand he wants you to run…"

Lionel smiles, though inwardly, he feels the beginnings of apprehension. What sort of errand? Is this something he can use? "Thank you, Jeanne—Ms. Giroux," he says, with just the right mix of flattering attention to an attractive woman and proper respect to the boss's secretary.

"You're welcome," she says, blushing. She doesn't sound so bored now.

Lionel smirks to himself. Women are so easy to manipulate.

Unfortunately, the senator has far too much power over Lionel's plans to be similarly dismissed. Funding, that's what he needs from the senator. Money will open most doors, Lionel Luthor has found in his twenty-three years on the planet Earth. He can't say for certain if it will open them all, because he hasn't tried. Yet.

"Sir?" he asks, pausing in front of the open door. "You wanted to see me?"

"Ah, Luthor. Come on in." The senator is at his ease, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled and eyes thoughtful. "Sit down."

Lionel does, making sure not to compromise his personal space. If you don't take up as much room as you reasonably can, people will think you're weak. And then they'll hurt you. For Lionel, it's a simple philosophy—never, ever, show a weakness. He may be seven years away from Suicide Slums, but it's not a lesson he's likely to forget.

"So…I know you're hoping for some funding—a new agricultural project, I think you said. And I've got to get this—" the senator lifts a sealed manila envelope briefly—"to a…colleague of mine. Seems to me, your proposal could be off and running as soon as you come back."

"Where does this colleague live, sir?" Lionel doesn't ask why the senator can't send the envelope via post, like a normal person. Some things are better left unsaid—and anyway, he can read the envelope at his leisure if he takes the job.

"New York. Here's the address," the senator hands over a page of notepaper with a few lines of cramped black writing. "I'll expect you back on Monday."

"Yes, sir," Lionel says, bowing to the inevitable. Who knows? Maybe the trip will be interesting. Maybe the _colleague_ will be interesting. Speaking of—"And the name, sir? Of your colleague."

"Oh, of course. Can't believe I forgot to mention that!" The senator laughs nervously. "Arthur Petrelli."

--

New York, Lionel decides, isn't nearly as nice as Metropolis. It's dirty, the streets are filled with worthless beggars—people who fail to use their natural gifts to escape the hell of poverty (always assuming they have any natural gifts)—and the sky is bleak and cold. New England, he thinks, with an inward mew of distaste.

Even the hotel is crowded, noisy, and gray. Everything here is gray. Lionel prefers a more colorful atmosphere. But he'll make do.

He makes sure he's quite, quite alone before examining the thick envelope. There has to be a reason the senator wanted it delivered by hand, after all.

Unfortunately, it's not very interesting. Or rather, taken another way, it's frightfully interesting, just not very comprehensible. There's a list of names, each followed by a long string of numbers and letters. He suspects there's some sort of code, and copies the list out very carefully. Then he reseals the envelope.

Petrelli's office is neat and boring. Lionel suppresses an inward sigh. At this rate, the list of names could be some meaningless statistic, utterly dull and useless. But in that case, why bother with a personal messenger? Lionel has seen plenty of things no sane person would entrust to the press, but a complex code of names isn't one of them.

"Who are you looking for?" a blonde secretary inquires. Lionel almost groans in frustration at the predictability of it all. He decides his secretary, once he's moved up enough to actually have one, will not be a blonde.

"Arthur Petrelli," he answers her, gesturing at the closed door. "It's urgent." Well—urgent is a stretch, but he really needs a cup of coffee. Anything to alleviate the boredom.

"Oh—he's away right now, but maybe I could give him your message…?" she suggests.

"I'm afraid—" Lionel starts, and then stops, mouth dropping open slightly (a mistake he quickly rectifies) at the sound of someone else's voice.

"I'll take it from here, Sharon, thank you," she says. "And you—come with me."

The woman is tall, though Lionel suspects, if it weren't for her heels and commanding presence, she would be no more than average height. Her eyes are dark. Her hair is very dark. And something like power sparkles in the air around her. Lionel suspects it's just confidence, but he doesn't care. He likes a confident woman—he likes a challenge.

He gives her a few seconds, just to make it clear he's following his own inclination, not her orders. Which he certainly is; she's magnificent.

"You have something to show me." It isn't a question. She turns to look at him for the first time, hands on her hips. She looks dangerous.

Lionel smiles. "That depends; are you Arthur Petrelli?"

She doesn't acknowledge his insolence. "I am one of his associates."

"I was told to give this directly to him, so if you don't mind—" Lionel makes a move to leave, and she grabs his wrist.

"I need to see it," she says coldly.

Lionel debates handing over the envelope; chances are she'll only pass it on, after she's had a look, and who is he to begrudge a little snooping? He'd rather not say farewell to the first intriguing woman he's met in months (or possibly longer) so quickly, though; instead, he takes a chance.

Grinning, practically oozing with charm, he says, "Let's discuss the matter further over dinner."

She tilts her head, watching him. For a moment, her regal mask slips, and he catches a glimpse of the struggling, brave woman beneath. He's fascinated.

"Very well," she says at last, letting go of his arm. She extends a hand. "I'm Angela."

He kisses the back of her hand instead of shaking it, making it clear he thinks she's attractive. Hell, she's more than attractive.

They make plans to meet, later that evening, and Lionel bows himself out, still carrying the top-secret incomprehensible code.

Dinner goes marvelously. Lionel discovers that Angela has a well-informed mind and excellent conversational skills, as well as her stunning looks and even more amazing confidence.

They don't reach any conclusion concerning the papers, and Angela seems to have dropped the topic, for the moment. She's all smiles and obscure literary references. Lionel, who used to store library books under a loose floorboard in his childhood home and read them on the sly, laps it up.

Somehow, they end up at the door to Angela's apartment (Lionel mentally notes the address) and then they're kissing.

Angela breaks away and gives Lionel a coy smile. "Call me," she says flirtatiously, and disappears into her apartment. The door is shut before Lionel can complain that he doesn't have her phone number (not that he can't find out).

He grins to himself. He loves how unpredictable Angela is. And here he thought New York was going to be boring.

Investigation reveals not only Angela's phone number, but also her last name: Petrelli. Coincidence that it's the same as that of the man he was sent here to find? Lionel doubts it, somehow. Petrelli's not a very common name.

Besides, what was she doing in his office? Is she his sister, daughter, wife? Lionel doesn't much care, except that it'll affect how he pursues her (and his task, can't forget that, the senator's waiting for him).

Arthur Petrelli, Lionel learns from one of the man's myriad blonde employees, isn't coming back for another two weeks. Looks like the senator chose the wrong time for this little visit.

"Sir?" Lionel speaks deferentially into the phone. "Yes, something's come up—this trip may take a bit longer than expected…No, nothing serious, just a few complications…Yes, I'll take every precaution…Absolutely, it would be marvelous if you'd take a look at my proposal…Thank you…Yes, sir, of course….As soon as possible."

Next, Lionel calls Angela. Yes, she'd love to accompany him to the theater. No, her schedule's rather fluid, she can't make plans too far in advance…Yes, tonight sounds perfect.

The play is a complete success. Next they go to the park, the museum, the river…A week goes by before Lionel realizes he's spent most of his waking hours with Angela. It's just, at last, here is a woman he can talk to, someone he can treat as an equal…maybe it helps that she's somewhat older than he is. She's got a whole life here, and he's just scratched the surface.

And there's the question of Arthur Petrelli, the man he came to see, to consider. He's found out that Arthur Petrelli and Angela Shaw were married in a quiet ceremony in 1964—about nine years ago. There's also a birth certificate for Nathan Ezekiel Petrelli in 1967.

He hasn't told Angela that he knows she has a son. He's not sure if he cares for such a living reminder that there's someone else in her life—a baby, he's already sure, is a much stronger connection than any other.

Or it should be, he thinks sourly, remembering his own highly inadequate parents.

That first week, Lionel and Angela haven't done more than talk, except for that kiss the first night. On their one-week anniversary of whatever they're doing, Angela elects to stay in.

There's no sign of little Nathan—Lionel assumes he's been sent to some babysitter, and catches himself hoping he or she is reliable—children require constant watching, he's aware. He's never even met Nathan, but he's sure Angela would suffer if anything happened to the boy. Lionel is surprised to realize that would hurt him, as well.

"To new friendships," Angela toasts him, a little half-smile playing around her mouth.

He raises his glass, and they drink together, never taking their eyes off one another. Lionel almost absently notes that it's a very good vintage.

They descend into their usual idle chatter with an ease Lionel's never experienced with anyone before—the closest he came to such spiritual connection was with his old friend Morgan Edge, and he suspects that was largely due to their similar goals.

At the same time, the atmosphere seems charged. Lionel watches Angela constantly, and learns that she eats in a dainty style reminiscent of the upper class, that her hair, although black, has slight brown highlights, that she likes to keep her nails on the long side, but only uses classy clear nail polish…

"Tell me about yourself," Angela says, giving him an ambiguous smile.

Lionel isn't fool enough to describe his future plans and schemes, but he finds himself telling her a little about growing up in Suicide Slum. She nods and sighs sympathetically in all the right places.

He longs to ask her about her life, her family, but senses they may be taboo. Instead, he finishes his tale of woe and just watches her. He's still trying to figure her out.

They finish dinner, and Lionel gets up to pull out Angela's chair for her. He leans down and she stretches up at the same moment, and their lips meet.

They stagger into the bedroom, still burning candles forgotten on the table.

The next morning, Lionel rolls over in bed, sits up, and stares around the room. There's no sign of Angela.

Lionel gets dressed, decides he quite likes the apartment, and that he really needs a cup of coffee, and reaches into the secret pocket in his jacket for the mysterious letter he's supposed to deliver.

It's gone.

Lionel searches everything he's wearing and the entire apartment (he finds photos of a child who must be Nathan, waxy candle-holders from last night still on the table, and Angela's little black dress soaking wet and hanging from the bathroom doorknob), but there's absolutely no sign of the list of names.

Angela took it.

It briefly occurs to Lionel that maybe the past week has only been about Angela trying to get her hands on that list, but he dismisses this notion, being much too confident in his own attractions to entertain it seriously. However, he can't deny that Angela wanted that list—nor that she's got it now.

At first he was mildly furious, but now he can't help an admiring smile for her superb tactics. She really is the most amazing woman he's ever met.

And she's taught him a valuable lesson: he won't be caught napping like this again.

Lionel lets himself out of Angela's apartment, notes with relief that Angela didn't so much as touch his wallet, and heads off to find some really expensive coffee.

He'll just chalk it up to the senator's expense. Lionel was looking discreetly over Jeanne's shoulder when she entered her boss's credit card number last month. He's always had a good head for figures.


	2. Consequences

**HeroesVille: Beginnings**

**Part Two: Consequences**

That might have been the end of it—Angela has the list now, and although Lionel is adorably naïve, quite intelligent, and excellent in bed, she's seen his future and it doesn't have her in it.

And this was always about Arthur and his mysterious plans, anyway.

Angela is in Arthur's office at Primatech Paper, the one place, ironically enough, she's sure she won't be disturbed (unless her husband decides to come home early from that business trip he refused to tell her about). She's reading the list.

After each name, there's a long string of numbers and letters. Angela doesn't know the code Arthur is using, but she doubts, somehow, that any of this has to do with paper. Primatech is still a fledging effort, barely a business, and Arthur isn't really interested in it anyway, but its employees are more loyal than those at Arthur's law firm.

Angela has dreamed about this list—she saw Arthur holding it and then grabbing a child she's never seen before, and both of them were surrounded by a white light—and then Arthur shot green lightning from his fingertips.

She's not anxious for the dream to come true—and she's thankful that she has more backbone than Cassandra; she'll do something to stop it.

She's not sure why she doesn't like the idea of Arthur gaining another ability, but somehow she feels it will ruin everything. And Angela Petrelli has learned to follow her intuition.

Before she can change her mind, Angela lights a match and burns the list. Carefully, she sweeps the ashes onto a spare piece of paper, and tucks a blank page into the envelope, which she reseals. Then she picks up the paper with the ashes on it, and opens the window. There's a strong wind blowing, and the ashes of the list disappear within seconds.

Satisfied, Angela props the unmarked, resealed envelope between the leg of Arthur's chair and the side of his desk, so that, if he really looks, he'll find it—but otherwise, it can stay lost forever (or get recycled by the janitors). She doesn't care.

Now there's no way Arthur can get that green-lightning power. Angela brushes off her hands, conscious of a job well done.

She doesn't suspect that anything has gone wrong with her plan until several weeks later. Two things happen which rather shake her imperturbable calm, mostly because, unusually, she didn't dream about them.

The first is the pregnancy test. She didn't even mean to take one, honestly, but she walked past a drugstore, remembered that her period was late, and decided to check—just in case. She couldn't remember herself and Lionel using protection (alcohol; she should swear off it now, but she knows she won't), and she and Arthur are in a stage of their relationship where they always do.

The pregnancy test is positive. And it's Lionel's baby, she's sure of that.

The second thing is a conversation with Arthur.

"Sweetheart?" he asks, over lunch in the spacious home they can just barely afford. "While I was away, were there any packages delivered?"

"Not that I know of," Angela lies mildly. "Why, were you expecting something?"

"It's probably just lost in transit," Arthur says, smiling at her. Angela feels a slight chill—Arthur is undoubtedly on Lionel's track already, and she really did like him—she didn't mean to get him in trouble.

Angela realizes she may have to do something—not least because Arthur will eventually realize that she's pregnant and that it can't be his child.

As always in times of crisis, she goes up to the bedroom and takes a nap.

She dreams of her baby—a beautiful boy with her dark hair and Lionel's dark eyes. She and Arthur name him Gabriel. He and Nathan quarrel all the time, growing up, he needs glasses at a young age, and he is Arthur's favorite child, though he tries to hide this. Nathan is the one who'll be a success, Angela _knows_, but she sees Gabriel studying to be a doctor, with Arthur's blessing, and then comes the day when Arthur and Gabriel disappear into a tall building and the next thing Angela knows, there's chaos and blood and death, and her son and husband smile at one another while Nathan flies around making rallying speeches. But no one is listening. Angela begs her baby to see her, but the sky turns red and Arthur laughs—

She wakes up. And she knows she can't let this baby, her Gabriel, be raised with Nathan. She can't let Arthur see him, can't even let him know about the baby's existence. Passing Gabriel off as Arthur's son might work, she knows now, but only in the short term.

What should she do?

"I found your messenger," she hears Arthur telling someone on the phone. "He's living in some hick town in Kansas."

Lionel!

Angela isn't sure why she cares (she'll blame the hormones) but she can't let Arthur kill Lionel. Not that it would come to that, she tells herself experimentally. She doesn't buy it.

"Honey?" she calls casually. "I'm going to the store, want anything?"

"Running low on toothpaste!" he calls back. "Want me to come with?"

"No, that's all right, you're busy! See you in a few!"

And she's gone, out the door before Arthur can say anything else. She hates to admit it, but she needs help.

She runs through a quick mental list of her own and Arthur's acquaintances, with a special emphasis on any that have been to Kansas. As far as she knows, she doesn't actually know _anyone_ who's been to Kansas—although she has a friend who lives in Paris whose husband grew up there, she's pretty sure.

Still, Elise and her husband—last name Painter? Potter? Printer?—don't have any abilities, so Angela is reluctant to trust them with covering her tracks—they just won't have had the proper experience.

No—clearly it's time to talk to Kaito. Such a nice man.

She uses a pay phone, after having bought the toothpaste and some orange juice for herself. "Kaito?"

There's the sound of his voice speaking Japanese.

"It's Angela," she says.

"Ah. Is something wrong?"

"Do you know anything about Kansas?"

"No, I can't say that I do. American, yes?"

"It's one of the ones in the middle. Ever heard the name Luthor?"

"No…I can have it looked into, if you like."

"Thank you. The name is Lionel Luthor. Luthor with an 'o,' not an 'e.' I'm looking for an address. And anything else you can get me."

"Of course."

"Thank you, Kaito."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Petr—Angela." She can hear the polite bow from here.

Click. Just like that, Angela, here in New York with her as-yet-unsuspicious husband and her six-year-old son, pregnant, and about to fudge her receipt to make that orange juice look _really _expensive, doesn't feel so alone.

It's not as easy as that, of course—neither she nor Arthur finds Lionel as quickly as they expected, but then comes the day Arthur flies to Kansas and Angela tries all the numbers Kaito found for her—before falling asleep, and dreaming that Lionel is coming to see her.

When she wakes up, she laughs at the marvelous coincidence.

There's a knock at the door, and she rises gracefully to answer it.

"Angela," he announces. He may be young, but he has presence.

"Lionel," she acknowledges, and holds the door open wider.

"You look well," he tells her, sitting across from her at her real kitchen table.

"You, too." It's the truth. He looks confident, successful…happy.

In that moment, Angela knows she won't tell him about Gabriel. Not yet. When he's born will be time enough. Lionel has his own life to live, after all.

"Want something to drink?" Angela asks belatedly. "Tea? Coffee? Milk?" She almost laughs at the thought of watching Lionel drink milk.

"No, thank you. I'm here on business," he claims suavely.

Angela waits. He surely can't mean he's in her kitchen because of business—unless he's looking for Arthur. Brief moment of panic, which she quickly quells.

"So…how are you?"

"Fine." Angela isn't going to explain. Still, perhaps she'd better warn him about Arthur. She wants him in one piece and not locked away in a lab somewhere being experimented upon, after all. "And you? Still delivering personal packages?"

"Not anymore," he smiles. "I wasn't precisely an expert at it, was I?"

"Oh, I don't know," Angela says slyly, before she can stop herself. She and Lionel exchange shy smirks, and then he's telling her all about his amazing, marvelous new company, and it's like old times again.

Angela doesn't realize how much fun she's had—nor what an excellent opportunity she's missed to make plans with him for Gabriel—until after Lionel's gone. Apparently he really does have important business in town.

Tired, Angela goes upstairs and lies down. Maybe her dreams will help her figure things out…

--

Some months after his frustrating, fruitless trip to Kansas (he didn't even have the list of people with abilities, so the trip was a complete waste), Arthur Petrelli is sitting in his office, putting together all the different data he's acquired from people's minds.

Telepathy is an amazing power, one he's very glad he was able to acquire. However, it's usually necessary to write down everything in an orderly list before he can really process things—especially when he's just read a lot of different minds. He'll burn the list when he's finished, of course. The fact that he smokes cigars comes in handy for the destroying of secret documents.

The facts are woefully few (trust his Angela for that) but his secretary saw her pull what's-his-name into the side office, and what's-his-name was holding an envelope…then there's Nathan's babysitter snooping through Angela's closet and finding a maternity shirt she didn't have seven years ago with Nathan…and now Angela's off to spend some months in Japan, helping Kaito and Ishi build their own company (a legitimate one; trust Kaito to toe the line)…

Arthur doesn't believe in coincidence. The senator sent him the messenger who never arrived, and yet someone did, didn't they, and if Angela's pregnant why wouldn't she tell him, and she's never left Nathan this long before—they're lucky they've found such good babysitters…

There's one way to test this, isn't there? Arthur isn't sure if what he's considering is even possible, but then, his estimates of what's possible have inflated rather rapidly since he realized what he can do…

What he needs is a leading geneticist. He can't do this on his own. And he'll have to convince Bob to come up with the necessary capital (so convenient, having a friend with the Midas touch)…tell him it's for Nathan's birthday party. Seven, an important age…

"Hello? Arthur Petrelli speaking…put Dr. Hamilton on…I think he'll be interested…"

--

Angela adores Elise and her husband's home in the middle of nowhere, France. How could she not?

How could she not adore her old school-friend who doesn't ask what she's doing, heavily pregnant and her husband nowhere in sight, eating a croissant and pretending everything's normal?

The two little girls are about Nathan's age, and they're adorable, too. Nell and Laura. Very English names for Elise to have chosen—it's probably her husband's influence. Angela can't remember his first name, but he's Something Potter, she's ascertained.

"Thought about names yet?" Elise asks brightly.

"His name is Gabriel," Angela says. She's not going to fight fate.

"Oh, how sweet! He weel be your leetle angel!" Elise says in English, clapping her hands.

"No doubt," Angela agrees (rather sardonically, but Elise is too tactful to notice).

--

Ishi hasn't heard from Angela in months. Arthur's a little frustrated. Kaito swore to him that his wife was staying with them, but surely Ishi would know, if that were the case…

Meanwhile, progress with Messenger-Two is quite rapid; Arthur finally got hold of that man, Luthor, that's his name, and it was easy work to swipe a DNA sample. Luthor probably would've been more suspicious if it hadn't been for the check (thank you, Bob!). He was such a bore, going on about agriculture and the economy. Arthur's never been very interested in any of that.

The law has slightly more appeal, but only insofar as he's able to manipulate, evade, and in general break it.

Dr. Hamilton thinks Luthor's clone is nearly ready. Looks his age, by now. All Arthur needs to make it work, make the clone live and have an ability so he'll be able to control whatever hellspawn Angela's pregnant with, is Ishi.

--

It rains when Gabriel is born. Angela supposes that's to be expected. She feels like maybe the Universe is having a bit of a laugh at her expense.

Elise is very supportive. And her little girl, Laura, actually asks to hold Gabriel.

Angela makes her sit down, and she doesn't quite let go of her son even when Laura's holding him. She'll have to give him up soon enough, but that doesn't mean she'll tolerate carelessness.

"He's beautiful," breathes Laura.

"Looks like an ugly old man to me," argues her sister Nell. "And I thought babies didn't have eyebrows."

"Everyone has eyebrows, darling," reproves Elise.

Now that Nell mentions it, though, Angela has to admit that Gabriel's eyebrows are rather prominent. He's already got a bit of dark fuzz on his head, and his eyes, when open, are dark as well.

He's not as beautiful as Laura Potter seems to think, but he's got a certain charm. Then again, what can you expect, from a newborn?

Angela won't let herself get carried away.

--

"Well? Can you do it?" Arthur only asks because he feels the need to say something. He knows Ishi can do it.

"You're sure this will be for the good of everyone?" she asks again, looking worried.

"Ishi," Arthur says, holding his impatience back with an ease born of desperation (and long hours of practice), "have I ever lied to you?"

_Technically_—he thinks, but then this is hardly the time to get sidetracked.

Ishi brightens. "That's true…" she says. "You are a man of your word, Arthur Petrelli."

He crosses his fingers as she turns toward Messenger-Two (whom he's decided to name Samson Gray—Samson because of its Biblical connotations, and the fact that 'son' implies anything but a clone; Gray because that's the moral area he, his wife, and their associates seem doomed to exist in). Ishi breathes on the body that looks (that _is!)_ identical to Luthor's, and kisses his forehead. Arthur can almost see Samson Gray, complete with dormant formula and falsified memories, wake up and exist.

It's magical—and probably the first time that Arthur decides he needs the power to do that himself.

Ishi gives him a little bow, and leaves, saying only, "You are a brave man, Arthur."

Arthur grins. He's going to keep an eye on this baby. He doesn't know where Angela is at the moment, but he's sure she'll come back once the baby's born. And there Samson Gray will be, a tool ready to Arthur's hand.

--

"I'm glad you agreed to meet me," Angela says, smiling tiredly at Lionel. She hasn't been getting much sleep lately. Nathan's seven, now—she'd forgotten how much babies cry.

"Of course, Angela. Is this him?" Lionel asks. He sounds a little stilted.

"Yes," Angela says, pulling back the blanket from Gabriel's sleeping form. "This is Gabriel—your son."

Lionel holds out his arms, and, reluctantly, Angela hands Gabriel over. She knows this is for the best. "Goodbye," she says, and goes, before she breaks down crying (only from exhaustion, of course).

It's only later, after Angela's had a good night's rest and said hello to Nathan, darling child, that she realizes. Impossible as it sounds, that simply can't have been Lionel.

Where was the subtext, the sexual tension, the amazing, powerful confidence she's felt coming off Lionel in waves every time she's seen him before this?

That was someone else. Angela's about to put two and two together further, when Arthur comes into their shared bedroom.

"Forget about Luthor and the baby," he orders, and Angela closes her eyes for a moment.

When she opens them, it's to say, "Oh, Arthur, sweetheart, I didn't hear you come in. Is Nathan settling down all right?"

"Nathan is your favorite son, isn't he, darling?" Arthur asks.

"Of course," Angela replies, looking confused. "He's my _only_ son."

--

It's not too long after that when Dr. Hamilton's lab burns down. The doctor is inside. A tragic accident.

Lionel Luthor wasn't born yesterday, after all.

Besides, what kind of person fishes someone's used coffee cup out of the trash, anyway?

All of Lionel's fastidious soul recoils from Arthur Petrelli. The man is clearly insane.

His poor wife, Lionel thinks. A goddess among women.

Pity that he won't be able to see her again. Luthorcorp couldn't afford the scandal.

And Lionel leaves it at that—for the moment.


End file.
